


all right, all well, and we're all fine

by schweinsty



Series: AOS Tarsus Verse [2]
Category: Star Trek XI
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2682992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweinsty/pseuds/schweinsty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion piece to the long cold river. Winona's take on the aftereffects of Tarsus IV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all right, all well, and we're all fine

**Author's Note:**

> This is old; I'm just importing it (and a couple of other things) to this account before I post a related Trek XI fic. 
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: This is a post-Tarsus IV fic, and contains: PTSD and trouble eating due to flashbacks and previous starvation. There is some graphic description of violence of Tarsus, and its aftereffects are dealt with. If you are triggered, please read with care.

The first day you go back to work, your stomach’s full of butterflies and you can’t sit still. You check your work bag and make sure the phones are working, in case something happens and Frank’s c-phone gives out, and when you’re done with that, Jimmy’s still asleep, so you sit down on the couch, eat some oatmeal, and pretend to watch the newscast.

By the time Jimmy’s door creaks open, you’ve watched the newscast three times and reorganized the cupboard over the sink.

“Mom?”

It has you grabbing for the phaser at your hip, you’re so on edge, but you calm down quick and think, _hey, it’s just Jimmy_ , and _besides, you don’t carry a phaser any more._

“Time ‘s it?”

You almost start laughing, he sounds so normal: so the groggy, mildly grumpy still-a-boy that you remember from last winter. So at odds with your jittery disquietude.

He’s halfway down the stairs when a loud noise from the newscast startles him, and he grips the banister and almost doesn’t hyperventilate.

The oatmeal burns its way back up your throat. You clench your fists and swallow it down.

_Not now. Later. He’ll remember._

His hair is thin and his eyes are bright and his t-shirt hangs loosely off his shoulders, and he walks slowly and hunched over like an eighty-year-old man. You think, _God, I can’t do this, I can’t do this any more, what if I can’t help him?_ and you want to hold him in your arms and keep him safe and tight until he starts breathing right again.

“Morning,” you say instead, in a chirpy - _too chirpy? Don’t want him to see you’re faking_ \- voice. “There’s oatmeal in the heater, if you want some. Frank’s going to be in the workshop all day, case you need anything, and you can call me at the yard any time, for any-”

“I’ll be fine, mom,” he says, and he looks so self-conscious and obnoxious that you chuckle.

“Yeah, yeah,” you tease, grabbing your bag and checking it again. “Whatever, kid.”

He huffs, flushes, and flops down on the couch belly-first.

It’s one of the few normal moments you’ve had since he came back. It’s so normal that you forget, just for a moment, and fluff his hair as you walk by the couch.

Jimmy jerks and stiffens and takes a breath, and his fingers dig into the couch.

He doesn’t like it, much, when people touch him any more.

“Sor-” No, you think, no apologizing, it’ll make him feel guilty - _does he already? Fuck it, why’d you have to touch him? Just when it was going so well. Jesus._ “I’ll be back by six, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t answer.

You walk to the door with a pit in your stomach. Maybe, you think, maybe you could stay home today. They’d understand. Would Jim? He’d think it was his fault. But if he has another flashback and you’re not here, then it won’t-

“See you,” Jim mumbles.

You drive off that morning, and your heart feels lighter than it has in weeks.

_Maybe this is what he needs. Maybe this will help him. Maybe he’ll get better._

_Maybe things will finally get back to normal again, and maybe he’ll be fine._

 

He’s doing fine when you get home that evening, and the evening after that. A week passes; two weeks.

And then one day you get back home and he’s hiding in your closet and shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he says when you sit down next to him. He’s huddled, knees to his chest and bowed head buried in his hands so you can barely understand him. “I’m sorry, I’m okay.”

You don’t think you can speak yet. Your heart’s still thundering from the run up the stairs, from the frantic _Oh god not him not now not me not again please not Jimmy_ that took over your mind when you found the front door ajar and your old yellow vase lying broken in the doorway.

“I’m okay,” he says again, and he’s shaking and shaking and you don’t know what to do, because if you touch him it might trigger something so you can’t do anything, but if you leave him be you think he’ll break.

You sit by him and breathe, until your breath is even. Then you reach out – _slowly, slowly_ \- and trace your fingers lightly over his back.

He breathes out in a sob and rocks back into your touch.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you say. You rub his back and he doesn’t flinch. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer you right away. Takes him a minute or two to stop shaking so much. He props his chin up on his left hand. His right has bite marks on it like he tried to stop himself from crying.

_Jesus, sweetheart, it’s okay, you’re okay, you’re fine and safe now and I won’t let anything happen to you so please, please be okay, please be fine, please stop breaking_

“Heard a noise,” he chokes out. “Tapping. On the window.”

He puts his head back down, and this time you think he’s crying.

“That’s what they – what it sounded like. When they came for Tammy.”

Tammy. His cousin. The soldiers found out she’d been hiding refugees. They broke into her house, took her outside, and cut her throat and burned the body for display. Jim’d hidden in the greenhouse till the soldiers went away again. He said it had smelled like burning meat; one of the little kids he’d been with had been so hungry he’d cried because he couldn’t have any.

“I’m sorry,” Jimmy says. His hands are shaking. He starts rocking back and forth again and sucks in great big lungfuls of air. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

You rub his back and make soft noises and tell him it’s okay.

Nothing else you can do, really.

 

He stops eating a few days later.

It’s not too worrisome at first. His first week back home, he ate maybe two full meals and threw back up what little else he took.

Saturday, at lunch, he’s eaten half a protein shake and a bowl of jello when he shoots up from his chair, runs to the bathroom, and doesn’t quite make it to the toilet before he vomits.

“I’ll get it,” Frank says, and sighs.

You put your hand on his arm and shake your head. Frank’s been so good, but Jimmy doesn’t like it when anybody sees him weak, least of all his stepfather.

Frank picks up the dishes and heads out to the workshop. You head to the bathroom, where Jim’s kneeling in the fresher.

You’re still several steps away when he stands up long enough to shut the door and lock it.

You wait outside until he comes out. Your legs fall asleep.

“I’m okay,” he says when he walks out. His eyes are red. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t come downstairs for supper, and the next day he says he isn’t very hungry.

 

After the third day, you call your oldest son at the Academy. He picks up right away.

Funny, that Tarsus was what got him speaking to you again. He doesn’t even blame you for this.

_He should._

“I’ll be home soon,” he promises.

He gets home at four o’clock the next morning, still in his bright red uniform. He’s tall, you think. Taller than George was when he died. You hug him, and he hugs you back.

“Jimmy’s upstairs,” you tell him. “Asleep, I think.”

You sit on the couch with him and talk until Jimmy wakes up. George hasn’t been home in two years. You talk about Jim a lot. About Tarsus. About everything that wasn’t on the news. When you don’t want to talk about that any more, you talk about everything else.

“Everyone calls me Sam now,” George says.

You nod and make a note of it, but you keep forgetting until he tells you he doesn’t mind.

Frank makes you both coffee when he gets up. By the time he leaves, the sun’s rising and the sky’s pink and the morning looks beautiful.

You make oatmeal for breakfast. Brown sugar, blueberries, cinnamon. Jim’s favorite. You keep a bowl in the heater for him until George - _Sam_ \- brings him down.

Jim’s smiling, just a little. Almost grinning. His legs are shaking, so George - _Sam_ \- helps him walk.

“I made you breakfast,” you tell him. You set the bowl in front of him. He picks up the spoon and frowns.

“Looks good,” he says, and his breaths get short.

“You need to eat, sweetheart.”

George sits next to Jim and puts a hand on his brother’s back. “It’s okay.”

Jimmy nods and holds the spoon and doesn’t take a bite.

“Just one little bite,” you murmur. Your eyes are burning and your throat feels raw. “Just try a little bit, okay?”

He nods. Takes another big deep breath. George murmurs something encouraging and rubs Jim’s back.

Jimmy takes a bite and swallows it.

He gags. His hands grip the edge of the table so tight his knuckles go white. You put your hand over his, and his are clammy. He looks like he’s going to cry.

_Good boy, good boy, good job, sweetheart, it’s okay, you’re okay, you’re safe and I’ve got you and it’s going to be fine, please be all right_

He goes to you or you go to him and you hold him to your chest and tell him he did good. George - _Sam, now_ \- leans in from behind Jim and wraps his arms around you both. His eyes are wet. Yours, too.

“It’s okay,” you say. You kiss the top of Jimmy’s head and whisper things you hope are soothing. He starts shaking. Sobs a little. Your shirt gets wet. He hasn’t cried, much, since you brought him home from the hospital, and you hope that this is good. Hope that you’re not breaking him by helping.

“It’s okay,” you tell him as he shakes in your arms. Sam’s hands grip your sleeves so hard it cuts off your circulation.

You hold your boys close to you and hope.

 

Jim starts eating again after that. Starts talking a little more. Stops hiding in your closet when he hears a noise.

Sam leaves after a week or two, says he has to get back for midterms. He’s so much older than you remember, but he looks younger than when he came. A burden off his shoulders, that Jimmy’s doing well. He even says goodbye civilly to Frank before he leaves.

Frank keeps, mostly, to his workshop. He listens to you when you need to vent, makes food that Jim will eat, picks up the slack once you go back to work at the shipyard.

Two months after Jim starts eating again, you get orders to present updates on the Enterprise’s progress in San Francisco. Just a weekend trip, three days at the most. You’re typing a refusal when Jim reads it over your shoulder.

“It’s not a big deal,” you say. It is, but not as big a deal as he is. Not even in the same ballpark.

“It’s okay,” he says. He grins. “I’ll be fine. I’m – I’m okay. You should go.”

You don’t believe him, not really. But you want to. You hope to. You think that if you don’t, you’ll crack.

“Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

He helps you pack. Tells you to say hi to Frank and bring him back something cool. He’s lying through his teeth but you don’t know what else to do, so you go along with it and hope you’re wrong.

_Maybe he’s all right. Maybe the last two months haven’t been a fluke._

Frank drives you to the shipyard. Jimmy stands at the door and smiles and waves goodbye until you can’t see him any more.

_Maybe this is what he needs. Maybe this will help him. Maybe he’ll get better._

Maybe things will finally get back to normal again, and maybe he’ll be fine.  



End file.
